I was awakened at 6:00 a.m. with the sounds of blaring but fun music. Let Tabaski begin! Great dance music. Inside the courtyard we shucked more corn while standing and dancing in a congo-line, carelessly tossing husks everywhere.

I thought I'd been invited for Tabaski. Eleven-thirty a.m. at chez Yaya. One of my favorite things about Africa, or at least Burkina, is that you can always find someone on the road or inside a courtyard, tell them whose home you seek, and they'll lead you there. Can you imagine this in the States? I'm looking for Sam's place? Well good luck! But here, if they don't know the person directly, they'll know someone who knows, or more likely, someone who's actually related. Thus, I found Yaya's home with minimal effort. Large home, huge courtyard, big freezer. Size does matter, especially with freezers and Tabaski.

So I've been complaining about lack of protein in my diet. Then comes Tabaski. It's not that Tabaski is all about lambs and sheep, it's merely that lambs and sheep trump goats in size, thus they are more suitable for a grand fete like Tabaski. Or so I believe. So a chevre slaughter is fine for the end of Ramadan, but Tabaski calls for something plus grand . . . in addition to poultry and goats. Analogy: one could serve a chicken for Thanksgiving, but for such a grand feast, a turkey is better suited. Size does matter.

When I arrive at Yaya's I meet his wife and children, as well as his little brother, neices, nephews, and so many other family members that I couldn't possibly put together the pieces of the family tree. Sauce pots were already boiling, with sheep lungs, piment, cabbage, and tomato sauce . . . and the ubiquitous palm oil, of course. A rice pot the size of a Mini-Cooper simmered away. Size does matter. Sheep and lambs were already hanging, blood dripping into collection pans. Alaco, chickens, and guinea fowl had already been fried. Fried chicken is good, but fried guinea fowl is fantastic. I was full in about 10 minutes, with the first protein I've had in weeks. And this was merely the first course. Was it as good as I think it was? Yeah . . . definitely.

After chowing-down on poultry, the kids proudly showed me the sheep heads . . . fur, tongue, eyes, horns, all intact. We took the heads out to the road to be placed on fires. Yep, fires, right there in the middle of a road . . . all roads being virtually deserted today. The kids though that pulling on the sheep tongue was funny; and as I, too, pulled on it and said baaaaa, everyone laughed. Hey, it's only a slimy tongue in the mouth of a decapitated sheep. What's the big deal?

So the woman in the courtyard near the road was cleaning a recently deceased rooster and hen. In all candor, I was sorry to have missed the kill. I'll eventually see a chicken kill in this land, and today I was actually ready for the chaotic event. But no such luck. However, the neighbor was anxious to see if the little white girl would sully her hands and rip apart a chicken. You bet I will. And thus, sans knife, I removed the tongue (yes, chickens have tongues . . . did you miss that episode of Iron Chef?), removed and opened the crop (not edible, but she wanted me to look inside), and carefully preserved the testicles of the rooster and the immature eggs of the hen. Ever seen eggs still inside a hen? Fascinating, truly. And the rooster's testicles? Clearly, size does matter.

OK, enough images of animal slaughter. Suffice it to say, I had fun and was still able to enjoy my luncheon. When lunch was served, I ate inside with the men. Being a white woman in West Africa evidently brings some status, and at events such as Tabaski (or birthday or bac fetes), I've always been invited to eat with the men. Women eat later, usually outdoors, children eat last, and dogs get the left-overs. Lunch was surprisingly simple: more fried poultry, rice with the lung sauce (which was quite delicious), and more cold soda pop varieties than I've ever seen. Beer, too. I think that the Muslim consumption of alcohol is tied directly to the importance of the holiday. So for a general dinner, I suspect that most followers of Islam don't imbibe, as per their religon. But for a grand fete all bets are off and beer is consumed in quantity . . . from light lagers to Guiness and Castle Milk Stout from Ghana.

I think that the measure of a good host or hostess in Burkina is a two-prong test: the quantity and chill-factor of the beverages, and the quantity of meat in the sauces and on the plate. Meat and cold drinks. I'll have to remember that for Thanksgiving.

So where was the cooked lamb? Where's the carving of the sheep and the munching on sheep's head? Evidently, the big event is a village-wide affair near the centre-ville this evening. Yaya says to get some rest this afternoon for the party tonight. So what'd you do on this ordinary Tuesday? And who's going to clean-up all those corn husks? We can only speculate.